"The Loyal Servant" by Abraxas (05-11-10)
Chapter One
He did not know the name of the village and to be honest it did not matter. There had been many before, there would be many after. Even the locale was like any other, except for the mountainside view. That stuck out in his mind. Deep within his memory there were fragments of a past life that refused to die and tried to suggest, through subtle, subconscious ways, that a curious familiarity clung about the scene. And along with that hypnotic lure the face – that face – emerged into view and he wondered if there would be a connection and if he might, just might, meet the face again.
"No," he sighed into his hands.
He prayed that day never to come because he knew it would be the end, the world could not survive another encounter with the face. She was so beautiful, kind and gentle. He knew what would be required of him. He knew, too, he did not have the heart to do it.
So be it. He did not want a woman – a nurturer – it was bound to take too long to do the work and that was time he did not have. He did want a man – a protector – among other things it would be pleasing to surpass that challenge.
Under the cover of sunset, for it was a sweltering, summer evening, he reached the side of the river undetected. He looked back into a void amid the forest's gloom along the mountain's face that resembled a cavern. Although it was late, it was early for the bats to be awake and alert – yet the sounds of their high-pitched, ear-splitting shrieking could be heard echoing within out of the orifice.
Then in an instant the bat's cries were silenced as if they had all but one neck and it were cut-off.
He turned back, retreating into the stream, into the visage of its silver, glassy cascades. He splashed his face with the fresh, cool water to wipe away the dirt that days of trekking through the wilderness caked onto his features. He brushed his clothes, ripped and torn by years of abuse; he loosened its fabrics, clean in form though in substance beyond salvation.
From across the distance – from out of that space, the shadow, the darkness, that cavern – he felt the pressure of the eyes pressing into flesh like sharp, long fangs.
Those eyes.
Ravenous.
And with that, at that moment, at that instant, he started the work that would be perfect, flawless.
Deep into the river he tread until he could not feel support under foot any longer. There, at the midpoint of the stream, just like a leaf upon the water he let go to be taken away by the current. At first it was a curious sensation, a welcoming, relaxing release. Then the instinct to survive resurfaced – he struggled as he slipped past large rocks and craggy boulders. He fought violently, loudly as he rounded one bend after the next as the flow wound into the valley. He shouted at last as he came within earshot of the children.
The children – they would be integral to the business – once he had seen them from afar: the sun was sinking but it was not fully extinguished and in the twilight he watched them play, chasing and catching fireflies. Now, as they heard his garbled, frantic shouting, they raced toward the reedy banks, getting as close as knee-deep into the river, getting no further as older, abler women held them back and called the men.
A small group of townsfolk rushed into the scene, alerted by his and the children's ruckus. He saw a woman holding a lamplight, a couple of men with swords and a figure riding a horse clad in the typical samurai dress. A rope was thrown into the water aimed at his direction – he reached it but its length slipped through his fingers. And as he was about to pass the critical point, could it be that he was in true and mortal danger?
Impossible, he could not allow himself to fail and already a backup plan was forming: it was not as ambitious but it was not as certain of failure as the original.
Then – just as the light was seeping out of the day – he caught a glimpse of a man, a tall, sword-clad man, rushing into the river, stripping out of his clothes and diving into the stream.
All the while he was sinking, exhausted and beaten. The ride through the river pummeled his body and numbed his mind. For a while the world was just a series of disconnected impressions. He felt arms, tight, strong arms. He felt movement against the stream. He felt safe as the light of the lamp shone into his eyes larger and brighter by the moment. Until, at length, he did not feel water but dirt and air.
He was brought to the reedy banks, rescued, his clothes torn and soaked, telling the tale of the would-be horror of this near-death.
Of course, he was not recognized to be a villager.
The children were curious, but as soon as the novelty was lifted and the night was fallen they fled for their homes. There was one youngster who took his time leaving – maybe he was more curious than the rest, maybe he did not have family – whatever the cause, the adults seemed to be paying him little mind. The woman with the torchlight was attentive, but when the evening drew to a close she left, too, as her home and her family beckoned. Yet the boy was wandering, looking back at him. The men took note of the incident, talked among themselves about matters here and there and returned to their work, their jobs. All of the men left, but for the one who saved him. Still the boy lurked staring through the bushes, analyzing the events.
Struggling to remain as conscious as possible, the victim reached for the rescuer and grabbed him – his wrist, his arm – with all of his vigor. He tried to look into the man's eyes. Wide, black eyes. He tried to speak. But with his strength deserting, his hold waning, he fell back spent and exhausted.
